Almost Free
by Livvy1800
Summary: Takes place directly after His Last Vow: To the world, it may seem that Sherlock Holmes cares for no one. But he does care, deeply, for a select few. When he realizes his own actions have put one of those precious relationships in danger, he knows that he must either repair it, somehow, or let it go forever. Season Three Spoilers! (Fluffy fun Sherlolly) Rated M b/c I'm paranoid!
1. Chapter 1

***ALERT! SEASON THREE SPOILERS***

**This is my very first attempt at writing fan fiction, so feedback would lovely. Clearly, I do not own any of this, nor am I attempting to profit from it. But it **_**is **_**fun to write!**

**Chapter One**

"Aren't you going to ask me in?"

Molly stared up at the dark-haired man who filled the doorway to her flat, his broad shoulders nearly touching either side of the narrow space. She bit her lip, then gave herself a mental pinch.

"I hadn't thought to, no."

Sherlock narrowed pale blue eyes at her. "That's rather rude. Didn't think you had it in you, Molly Hooper."

"Are you clean?" She didn't miss the way his jaw clenched at her question. "I mean, not at the moment, well, of course _yes_ at the moment too, but—"

"I know what you meant."

He pushed past her into the flat, uninvited, his wide mouth set in irritation. "Why can't you people understand _it was for a case_? John is constantly watching me, as if I'll suddenly break out a needle and start mainlining in the middle of a conversation. Mary, too. As if she's one to judge. At least I'm not going around killing people. Not as a habit anyway."

Molly blinked, confused. She opened her mouth, but he stopped dead in the center of her living room, and shot her a quelling glance as he shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the sofa.

"Delete that last bit. Not important."

Apparently he was staying. Giving up, she shut the door, and turned, then paused as she found him surveying the small room.

"It's even more dismal than I recall. Have you redecorated?"

Molly pressed her lips together. He was _such_ a prat.

"No, but thank you for the lovely compliment. Did you _need _something or are you just popping by to be insulting, and generally annoy me?" She marched into the kitchen, and snatched the kettle from the countertop. After filling it halfway with water, she slammed it onto the stove, flicked the burner on, and went to grab a box of tea.

A sudden flash of Sherlock, bedraggled, filthy, and higher than the gables of London Tower, flashed through her memory. She fumbled the box through a veil of tears, and it fell to the floor, spilling tea bags across the dingy linoleum. A hand on her shoulder prevented her from dropping to her knees to gather the wayward tea, and Sherlock stepped past her in silence. He crouched down and scooped them up, then stood, nudging her aside.

It was disconcerting when he was kind, almost more so than when he was disdainfully cutting in his deductions.

Molly scrubbed the heel of her hand across her cheeks to dry the tears as he removed the now whistling kettle and poured steaming water into the pair of cups he had arranged with tea bags. Imagine that. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, making her a cuppa. She'd dreamt of such a moment for years, just the two of them, alone and having a proper coze.

But she was too angry, and disappointed, to enjoy it.

Taking the mug he handed her, Molly trailed after him in reluctance, as he moved back into the main room. He settled on her sagging sofa, looking a bit startled as it groaned beneath his weight. After a small hesitation, she perched on the edge of the only other seat in the room, an old armchair she'd inherited when her dad had passed on. It was worn and patched in spots, but she loved it so.

Now it brought her the comfort she needed, reminded her that she wasn't just the girl who loved Sherlock Holmes, but a whole person, with her own life. And if he wanted to ruin his by fiddling around with drugs again, well...she loved him, but she didn't have to like him.

There were times she almost hated him.

Sherlock looked at her over his tea, icy blue eyes assessing, as if he could hear her thoughts. She scooted back into the chair and tucked her feet up under her, determined not to shrink under his gaze, waiting for him to speak.

"Right. Now that _that's_ out of the way," he said, setting down his mug with a decisive thunk onto the scarred low table between them. "A) I am clean. I will state one last time, the drug use was for a case, not recreational. B) I need your help, and you weren't at Bart's. Nor did you return my calls, or answer my texts and emails. That is simply not acceptable."

"So sorry, your highness," Molly muttered into her tea. If he didn't stop using that arrogant tone with her, he might find himself wearing the contents of her mug quite soon.

Sherlock ignored her comment, waving it aside with long, graceful fingers. "And finally, C. What in God's name did you do to your hair? Does it have something to do with your failed engagement to what's-his-face? I will never fathom why women feel the urge to take such drastic steps after a break-up. Auburn is not your color. Fix it. Immediately."

"You know, there are times when I imagine what it would be like if you had never come into my life." Molly set down her own mug, her feet hitting the floor with a thump. "It's all very peaceful, and no one orders me about. Sometimes I actually make it through a whole day without being insulted."

She stood, furious, but suddenly he was there. Standing so close her hands brushed the material of his shirt, where it stretched across the wide expanse of his chest. Had he always been this... fit? Or was it a more recent development? His nearness muddled her thoughts.

"But if you never knew me, Molly, think of how boring your life would be." The deep murmur reached inside her, doing wicked things to her already taxed libido. If she placed one hand on his chest, would the low timber of his voice vibrate under her palm, sending small quakes throughout her, shaking her to her very core?

With just his voice alone, Sherlock could unravel her into a puddle of witlessness and hormones. _Now _who was the prat?

Molly stepped away quickly, putting the chair between them.

"What do you need?"

His smile was slow, and sure. "That is a rather open-ended question."

"You said you went to Bart's, because you need me for something. I can only imagine it would be a case." She grit her teeth, praying for patience.

There was something different in the way he looked at her today. The news that he had had a girlfriend for the last month had almost dropped her to her knees when she heard, but it was no surprise when it turned out he had arranged the relationship merely for better access to a man he was investigating. The rumor was, he had even gone as far as... sleeping... with her.

Sherlock Holmes and a woman. In bed. Doing _things_.

Molly wished she didn't find the idea so mesmerizing. It both fascinated and repulsed her at the same time. It broke her heart, just a little. Not that she thought she ever stood a chance with him, but still. It hurt to have the fantasy shattered.

Apparently sex was merely another tool in his kit, to be employed whenever it would most advantageous. She had been an fool to think otherwise. And if the way he was looking at her now was any indication, it had been effective enough that he was thinking of adding it into regular rotation.

"It's my day off, Sherlock, and I've got plans. So if it's not pressing, I'd rather wait to discuss it until I get back to work tomorrow." She picked up the half empty mugs and headed into the kitchen. He followed her, and stopped at the entrance to the tiny room, as she dumped them into the sink and wiped her hands on a dishtowel.

"No, you haven't."

"Excuse me?"

"You haven't got plans." He prowled closer, arctic colored eyes flashing in the dim light from the kitchen's small window. "You're dressed in old jeans, worn to distress at the knees and hem, and a t-shirt that has a paint stain just here."

Reaching out, Sherlock touched the material that lay over her stomach with one finger. Molly's breath tangled in her chest as he towered over her. "You normally blow dry your hair, using a brush to tame its natural tendency to curl a bit. If you had plans to go out in public, you would never allow it to be seen as it is now, air-dried and kinked up. I'm not sure why, probably teased by your brothers a few too many times, growing up. Despite the current atrocious color, the curls are really quite fetching."

"They snarl," she whispered, her lips dry. He was too close, she could smell the clean scent of soap from his skin. Much too close. "They, um, they tangle and knot, so I...I straighten them."

His eyes crinkled at the edges, the frozen blue warming a few degrees. "If you say so. But, it still proves out my theory that you are not, in fact, going anywhere this afternoon. I don't believe I even have to mention the DVD of Magic Mike on the side table next to the sofa. Really, Molly? Magic Mike?"

She flushed, heat searing her cheeks. "It's a good storyline!"

"Mmm, yes." Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "But wouldn't helping me deduce how the body of a paraplegic man who lived in Dorset and never left his home wound up in the gutters behind St. Andrews, here in London, with an execution-style gunshot wound to the back of his head be more interesting?"

"_No_." Molly started to push past him, incensed she had yet again let his dubious charm worm its way past her guard. Then she stopped, one hand on the doorframe that led to the living room, chewing her lip.

_Damn it._

She turned back, her arms folded across her chest, and narrowed her eyes at him. "One hour."

The victorious gleam in Sherlock's eyes made her heart stumble. He flashed a cheeky grin her way as he snatched up his coat and strode to the door. Flinging it open, he gestured she should proceed him. As Molly brushed past him, still waffling over the wisdom of allowing herself to get talked into another one of his escapades, Sherlock leaned close, his dark voice sending a shiver through her.

"Whatever you say, Dr. Hooper. Whatever you say."


	2. Chapter 2

**Oh my gosh, you guys! Thank you so much for the feedback. You are all lovely. (Oh, and I said Molly's hair was auburn, because I didn't think she'd go crazy dying it blonde or loud red. She seems like the type who'd dye it two shades brighter and feel like a wild woman, lol.) This is going to be an ongoing story. I'm not sure how long. I'm just going to go where it takes me. XO!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own it, I can't even rent it. But I do love it. **

**Chapter Two**

Forty-eight minutes later, Molly and Sherlock climbed the inside stairs of her building.

"There, see? Back within the hour, case solved." Sherlock followed her as she turned down the hall and headed for her flat. "Though, I will admit, I didn't see the circus clown connection coming. That one took even me by surprise."

He chuckled as she drew out her key and inserted into the lock. "Well, for a few moments, anyway."

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Now, Molly, I've been researching hair salons—"

Her eyebrows drew down into a scowl as she pulled open her front door. "When could you possibly have done that?"

"I Googled them while we were solving the murder." Did she truly not think him capable of solving a piddling little crime such as the _Church Circus_ and multitasking at the same time? He would throw himself off a roof for real the day his mind moved that slow. He'd hadn't _needed_ her help, but merely asked her along to get a feel for exactly how upset she was with him. "Now, based on salons in your area, the ranges of prices you can afford, the acceptable ratio of services offe—"

"Good night, Sherlock," she said firmly, and shut the door in his face.

Perhaps still more upset than he had originally gauged.

He stood for a moment in the empty hallway, but she didn't reopen the door. If the sounds coming through the thin walls from the direction of her kitchen were an indication, Molly had already taken down the single bottle of wine she kept above the refrigerator and poured herself a drink. There was a moment of total silence, then he heard a _thump_, and a loud curse.

Sherlock rapped his knuckles on the door. "Put some ice on that before it swells."

"Go _away_, Sherlock!"

He smiled at her shout, and shoving his hands into his coat pockets, began to whistle as he jogged down the stairs. Despite her stoic reserve while assisting him earlier, Molly had shown several flashes of a temper today that he had only peripherally been aware of until recent events had pushed it to the fore.

Since the first day they had met, Dr. Molly Hooper seemed to morph into a mousy, shy, ball of nervous giggles whenever he was around. In the beginning, it had scraped at his patience and he had been quite short with her. But sometime over the last few years, she had grown on him.

They had become... friends.

Even faking his own death and requiring her to lie to their friends for years, hadn't put much of a dent in her regard for him. That is, if one did not take into account her relationship with Tom, and he did not. He could not begin to deduce what she had been thinking _there_.

The man could barely piece together an entire sentence, let alone fulfill Molly's intellectual needs. Not to mention, despite her bizarre offhand comment about the regularity of sex she had with her former fiancé, Sherlock had a difficult time believing she had been satisfied in that regard either. It was nearly impossible to fully enjoy sexual relations with someone who only knew the surface of you, nothing beyond the most shallow layer of your personality.

He would know. Janine had been positively acrobatic in her enthusiasm, but he had always come away from their encounters with a vague sense of dissatisfaction.

But the day John had dragged him into Molly's lab to "piss in a pot", as his friend so eloquently put it, something changed between them. He knew the moment the results became clear, the moment that she knew he had taken drugs again. Yes, of course, the slaps were a clue. Repeated slaps. _Three._ Three was not a good sign.

One, well, one slap was fury. Two was fury and disappointment. But three... three slaps from a woman like Molly meant he had broken something.

Sherlock was absolute rubbish at friendships, always had been. After all, it's difficult, nearly impossible, to be friends with people you constantly had to explain things to, over and over. Not to mention, he rather enjoyed his own company. Lately, however, he had seen the advantage of retaining a friend or two. His tiny circle was beginning to widen, just a hair. He'd rather be hung by his fingernails than admit it to Mycroft, but having friends was...

Nice.

But now he was in danger of losing Molly, and he found he didn't like that idea. Not one bit.

Normally, he'd let this sort of problem work itself out. But there wasn't any time. After shooting Magnusson, the only thing that had saved him from being sent off to certain death on the front lines of secret service work was an ominous message broadcast across London's television channels. A still of Jim Moriarty's head, animated to sing the words "_Did you miss me, did you miss me_..." left no doubt that the game was still afoot.

Oh, he did not doubt Moriarty was dead. It is rather hard to cheat death when the entire back part of your head has been splattered across several yards of rooftop.

But, someone wanted people to think he was alive. Power abhors a vacuum. When Moriarty and his network had been taken down, a vacancy in the criminal underground had opened. Someone was attempting to fill it.

But why use a dead man's face?

To send a message to him, of course. But _what_ was that message?

He didn't have a clue, and it was driving him mad.

Still, it wasn't the only thing taking up room in his mind palace these days. The problem was, what he had said to Mary was true. Sherlock didn't know a thing about human nature, not in the way she'd meant. He could deduce why this one had killed that one or where someone had hidden their most treasured possession from their relatives before dying, that sort of thing. But a problem like this required a person who knew all of human nature, not just the darker parts.

Sherlock bounded out of Molly's building and threw an arm out for a cab. He hopped into the first one that stopped, but left the door open.

"Please turn around."

"Wot?" The cabbie, a grizzled man in his early fifties, twisted in his seat and eyed him impatiently. "Are you gettin' in then?"

Sherlock studied him for a moment, absorbing all the information that marked the man. People gave away more than they thought, even without speaking. With a grunt, he reached out and pulled the door shut, satisfied he was in a regular cab. He'd had rather bad luck in the past, by not being as careful as he could have been.

Ten minutes later he was banging on John's door.

"I know you're in there. I can see your shadow moving behind the curtains," he called, rocking back and forth on his heels as he waited on the front stoop.

The door opened a crack, and Mary's face appeared in the space. One side of her mouth turned up in a little grin, her blue eyes sparkling. "Aren't you frisky, running all over London as if you weren't shot in the chest by some tremendous bitch just a few weeks ago."

"Yes, I'm lucky to have such wonderful friends. Is he here?"

"Sherlock?" John appeared behind Mary, and she stepped back, opening the door wide to allow him into their home. But Sherlock stayed where he was, clasping his hands behind his back. He loathed to ask for help, even in an area so clearly not his expertise.

Then again, there was so little _not_ his expertise. Perhaps he shouldn't be so hard on himself.

"Hello, John. I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. Fancy some fish and chips?" He cleared his throat and sent Mary a glare as she muffled something that sounded suspiciously like a giggle, the grin now spread all the way across her face. "_Alone_."

John looked at his wife, and she shrugged good-naturedly. He grabbed his coat from a hook by the door. "Uh, yeah, sounds good. Is this about a new case?"

"Of a sort." Sherlock glanced over as they descended the steps to the sidewalk. They headed toward the chip shop on the next corner, John matching his pace to Sherlock's longer stride. "I have a problem that I'm mulling over, and could use your advice."

John stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, his eyebrows raised. "_My_ help? _You're _asking _me_ for advice? Now I'm intrigued."

"Isn't that what best friends do?" Sherlock paused as well, turning back to face his friend, impatience filling him. He shrugged, his lack of experience in the area of having a best friend, and the fear of appearing foolish, making him bad tempered. "We both know I haven't a clue what I'm doing here, so I'd appreciate you not being difficult. I'm attempting to confide something rather...delicate."

"Sorry, sorry." John started walking again, a grin on his face. "Go on."

"Well." Reaching up, Sherlock loosened the scarf looped around his neck. He felt like he was choking. "Janine did not mean anything to me."

"Yes, I rather got that when you pretended to propose only to break into Magnusson's office."

"Oh, don't act so superior. It worked, didn't it? Anyway, my point is that I've never had a relationship with a woman that meant anything to me in any real way." The Woman didn't count. She was alluring, but whatever it was between them, wasn't more than a game of cat and mouse. He wasn't even sure which of them was the cat, and which the mouse.

Sherlock pushed open the door to the chip shop, then waited to continue until they had ordered and found an empty booth in the back of the noisy store.

He leaned forward, placing folded hands on the table in front of him, wanting John to understand he was serious. "The point is—"

"Ah, you do have one."

"_The point is_—" He spoke over John's smart remark, determined to get it out. Damn, this was more difficult than he had imagined. "I believe I want Molly Hooper, and I'm fairly sure she'd rather see me boiled to the bone like one of her skulls at the moment, rather than consent to...have dinner with me."

John choked on his porter. He turned a bit red in the face, coughing and sputtering, then set down the glass of beer carefully.

"You want Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock thought about it for another moment.

Did he? Painfully. Once he broke his celibacy, it was all he could think about, when he wasn't thinking about Mary's duplicity, the baby, his brother's willingness to ship him off to certain death, how long his wound would keep him immobilized, and whether or not he was dealing with another Jim Moriarty. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He truly was convinced Jim was quite, quite dead.

At least, ninety-nine point nine percent. The impossible had happened before.

But, since he could think of all those things at the same time and still compose a lullaby on his violin for the soon-to-arrive Watson baby, it meant she had been on his mind almost constantly.

"Yes." He nodded once, his decision made. He wanted Molly Hooper, and she was just going to have to forgive him. John would know how to make that happen.

"Well, my God. I never thought I'd see the day." John leaned back in the booth, looking stunned. He scratched his neck, then sighed. "She's pissed at you, mate. You let her down. You let us all down. I understand why, but she doesn't. Have you told her?"

"Told her about Mary, and Magnusson, and my killing him? No. I can't explain it without revealing Mary's story, and it's not mine to tell." Sherlock was quiet as the waitress dropped a couple of baskets in front of them. He dashed malt vinegar all over his chips, but didn't touch them. The food was merely a prop, a lure to get John to talk to him.

He had no appetite...for food.

John seemed lost in thought as he chewed his supper. He paused, a chip halfway to his mouth. "I suppose you don't want to take the normal route and send her flowers, perhaps accompanied by a large box of sweets, and note that reads _I'm_ _a huge cock, please forgive me_?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Hardly."

"Thought not." John popped the chip in his mouth, gray eyes dancing. "I'd say be yourself, except, well. I'll just advise you to have patience with her. Be kind, and attempt to show her how you feel. Let her see that you want to be with her."

Apparently John was rubbish at giving best friend advice.

"That sounds terrible. I don't _have_ any patience, John."

"You'll have to _find_ some then, Sherlock." John leaned forward, his expression turning serious. "Look, if you truly want her, not just for some fling, not just for sex, not just to make up for what you've put her through, then you're going to have to be patient. She doesn't trust you anymore, not the way she did. You have to earn that back."

The thought stunned him. Ah, he understood Molly was angry, that was obvious. But losing her trust? The idea had never occurred to him. His stomach ached just thinking about it.

Sherlock pushed away his untouched food. "Right. Trust. Rebuild her trust. I can do that. Not a problem."

Of course not. He could do anything. He was Sherlock Holmes.

Then why did he feel like there was a yawning black pit of doubt in the middle of his chest?


	3. Chapter 3

**I am having **_**such**_** a good time writing this, and you all are **_**so bad**_** for egging me on. I may have to take a break at some point, to write actual things that pay the bills. But for now, we'll just enjoy the ride, hmm? **

**Kisses!**

**(Usual disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. Wish they were! I'd make a Sherlock comic, because there **_**should be one**_**. )**

**Chapter Three**

Molly was going insane.

For the last three weeks, whenever Sherlock had come to Bart's, with John or without him, he had been unfailingly polite. Accommodating. _Deferential_, even. He never pushed when she told him it was time to leave, didn't mock her theories, and had made a point of apologizing for calling her hair color atrocious. That one had shocked her, as he had done it in front of John, without even a hint of irony.

He was definitely on drugs again.

"Excuse me, Molly, but could I borrow a few moments of your time?"

She paused with her scalpel in hand, a long, gaping slit cut in the chest and stomach of the corpse on the table before her. Sherlock stood in the doorway of the mortuary, one shoulder resting against the frame, his gaze intent on her. She hadn't heard him come in, didn't know how long he'd been there.

"Sorry?" Turning off her recorder with a click, Molly then pulled off the cap and mask she wore during autopsies, a bit self-conscious at being caught unprepared. Then again, he didn't like when she got fancied up either. Unless it was lipstick. He seemed to like the lipstick.

"I don't mean to intrude, but if you have a few minutes...?"

There it was again, that strange even tone of civility so unlike him. "Are you _asking_ me?"

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, she thought she saw a flash of irritation in his eyes. "Well, I wasn't asking the dead woman on the slab in front of you with the hole in her chest."

_There._ Finally he was acting normal again. Normal for Sherlock, anyway.

But before she could answer, he straightened from his slouch, his expression smoothing into a tight smile. "Apologies. Didn't mean to snap at you. I'm just feeling a bit...impatient...this evening."

Alright, enough. She was _done_ with whatever weirdness was going on in his head. Perhaps it was time for him to take another trip to the bathroom with a plastic cup.

"What is going on with you? Why are you being so...so..._polite_?" Molly threw down the scalpel and ripped off her elbow-length rubber gloves, tossing them onto the table next to the corpse.

"You object to politeness?"

"I object to you hiding things from your friends!" she shouted, stomping up to him, her feelings boiling within her. How dare he throw away such a brilliant mind, such an incredible gift? "You've caused us, caused John, enough grief already. What is _wrong _with you?"

"Using proper manners is grief inducing? Saying_ please _and _may I_ is an indication I'm hiding something? Really, Molly, don't attempt deductions. You're dreadful at them."

Frustrated beyond endurance, Molly then did something she had never done to another human being in her entire life. She reached out with both hands and shoved him in the chest.

"There. Now look what you made me do. You've driven me to violence!"

He captured her hands in his, looking pained, and murmured, "Yes, well, I'd rather you didn't do it again. I'm not quite healed enough to be your personal punching bag."

Oh, dear God. She had forgotten all about his gunshot wound.

"I'm so sorry. Please, let go." She tugged at her hands, sick at the idea she might have hurt him, and he slowly released her. "Can I check your wound?"

"I'm fine, Molly." But his expression was strained, incredibly tense. He must be in pain, and attempting to spare her guilt.

"Please? I won't feel better until I do."

Sherlock didn't move for a moment, then gave one short nod and held still for her, his body stiff.

She bit her lip, then felt across his chest with careful fingers. He sucked in a breath as she splayed her hands over his ribs, but said nothing. Pale blue eyes tracked her every movement, making her heart beat faster until she swore she could feel it in her throat. Despite his nearly mortal injury, the muscles his chest were firm and ridged with definition. It wasn't a hardship to run her hands all over him, to make sure he was still healing properly.

Satisfied that she hadn't done any damage, though she was tempted to ask him to remove his shirt so she could be _absolutely_ certain, Molly started to move away.

"Oh, fuck this. Patience is overrated."

The room blurred as Sherlock reached out and yanked her around, spinning her until her back hit the tiled wall. Molly blinked up at his savage face, his mouth almost grim as he stared down at her. Placing his hands on the wall on either side of her head, he leaned down until they were only a breath away from each other.

"I'm going to kiss you."

What? He was going to...what?

"Why?"

Had she asked _why_? Stupid girl! She was supposed to agree wholeheartedly, then drag him into the supply closet and ravish him.

He quirked one eyebrow, his nose practically touching hers. His breath was warm across her lips, when he answered, "Because I want to."

Sherlock wanted to kiss her. Two years ago, she would have fallen into his arms without another word, but now Molly needed more. She drew in a deep breath, released it.

"I don't understand. I didn't think I was your type."

"Do I look as though I'd have anything as mundane as a _type_?" When she just shook her head, miserably confused, he studied her for a moment, then slowly straightened. Dropping his hands to his sides, Sherlock took a step back. "You aren't going to allow me to kiss you, are you?"

Cursing herself silently, Molly hugged her arms to her ribs and shook her head no.

His expression went blank, cool blue gaze freezing over. "Forgive me for being blunt, but I was not unaware of your feelings towards me the last few years. I would have thought that my advances would be acceptable."

"I...I am attracted to you, Sherlock." She swallowed against a dry throat, wondering if she was being a fool. But how could she trust he wasn't just using her, like he did Janine? Not to mention, no matter what he claimed, he had been acting odd enough the last few weeks that she wasn't convinced he wasn't still using drugs. "I need time to, well, absorb the sudden change, okay? This is all very strange."

"This?"

"You. _You_ are being strange."

"Stranger than normal, you mean?"

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "Yes, that."

"I_ am_ sorry," he said softly, averting his eyes. The sudden vulnerability in his expression tore at her, and she had to clench her fists at her sides to keep from reaching out and touching him. "I want you to trust me again. I've promised you I'm not using, I've tried to show you I can change. I can be...nice. I really don't know what else to do."

"Is _that_ what you've been doing these past few weeks?" A laugh wanted to push its way out, but Molly smothered it. He might think she was laughing at him, and he wouldn't be entirely wrong, but it was just so adorable. He thought she wanted him to be _nice_. "I thought you were on drugs again."

He looked affronted.

"Because I was being polite? Because I wasn't demanding, or insulting, or..." Sherlock trailed off, his brows drawing together in thought. "Oh. Yes. I could see how you might think that. But you were mistaken. I'm not."

Perhaps she was an idiot, but this time, she believed him. His gaze was clear and determined, level on hers. Molly nodded, once. "Alright. Okay, I believe you. I won't ask again."

"Then, you'll trust me?"

She nodded without hesitation.

"I've decided I'm not going to kiss you." Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat and took a few steps away from her, edging toward the door.

Molly's mouth dropped open. "Was this all a ruse to get me to forgive you? Unbeliev—"

"No." Sherlock shook his head abruptly, stopping her mid-sentence, a lopsided smile pushing up one side of his wide mouth. He backed up to the doorway, his intense gaze on hers. "No, but I changed my mind. I can be patient. I _can_."

"Okay," she replied slowly, still confused. What game was he playing now? He was going to drive her mad, one way or another.

Sherlock paused, one hand on the doorframe. "Molly Hooper, will you have dinner with me tomorrow evening?"

"Dinner?"

"Food, perhaps wine, usually eaten from the hours of five o'clock to eight." His smile had become a smirk, and _there_ was the Sherlock she loved. Molly felt as though she couldn't quite catch her breath, suddenly too warm under the layer of scrubs she wore over her street clothes.

"Yes, okay. Fine. Umm, good." Pushing away a few stray wisps that had escaped her braid, she smoothed her hair with nervous fingers.

"I'll pick you up at your flat at seven."

"Okay." He turned to go, and Molly nibbled her lip. Before he could walk through the doorway, she blurted out, "Sherlock? Don't be nice anymore. I mean, don't be nice just because you think that's what I want. I...I like you the way you are."

He tossed her a wicked grin over his shoulder. "You don't like nice? Very well. I was never good at playing the angel for long, anyway."

With that deliciously alarming statement, he disappeared down the corridor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hello, dears. I've been at it again, because **_**Sherlock**_**, and **_**Molly**_**, and **_**Sherlolly**_**. All the feedback has been wonderful, and in case you're wondering, yes, I **_**was**_** intentionally torturing you all with the sexual tension. But, admit it. Won't it be so much more delicious when they finally tumble into bed? **

**If it makes you feel any better, I'm torturing myself as well. **

_**Enjoy**_**...she says with an evil, evil laugh. **

**(Disclaimer: Sherlock is not mine, no matter how hard I wish it. Neither are any of the other Baker Street characters, sadly. Kisses!)**

Chapter Four

Molly was on the best date of her life.

They had arrived at a small Italian place in the heart of Chelsea, where apparently Sherlock had once done the owner's mother a favor of locating her younger brother, lost to the family during WWII. To hear Mr. Rossetti tell it, Sherlock had achieved nothing short of a miracle, tracking down the man where he lived with his wife, children, and multiple grandchildren, on a corn farm somewhere in the middle of America.

"...which is why I told him, for _you_, Sherlock Holmes, free cannoli for life!"

The corners of Sherlock's eyes crinkled as he smiled up at the owner, then he confided in Molly, "They're really quite good. I shouldn't mind getting paid like that on all my cases, though I do imagine John would have a fit. He's already getting fat, what with being an old married man now."

"Sherlock, he's not _fat_!" Molly laughed, admonishing him with a shake of her head. The owner beamed at the pair of them, then hurried off towards the kitchens, shouting to his cooks that the great Consulting Detective was here, and they'd best not attempt to poison him, because he'd know exactly who to blame.

The restaurant was quiet, Molly and Sherlock being the only customers at the moment. The soft strains of violin music could be heard in the background, along with the muffled sound of the traffic from beyond the large plate glass window at the front of the restaurant. She wondered if he realized how romantic the atmosphere was, with its dim lighting and pristine white table clothes, or if he truly had picked it for the complimentary cannoli.

Sherlock shrugged off her amused reprimand, as he rearranged the sweetener packets in the caddy, filing them by what looked to be a random system. "He's put on enough weight his pants are tight, judging by the constipated look on his face whenever he sits—"

"It could be just listening to you lecture him, that puts that look there."

He flashed her an appreciative grin, pale eyes lighting up. "I like the cheeky you. So much more interesting than how you used to scurry around, nervous as a mouse. You've become quite bold in the time I was gone. It makes me wonder..."

Molly's breath caught at the intensity of the look he gave her, and she snatched up her glass of wine, taking a sip to wet her throat. "About?"

"Many things, Molly Hooper, many things," he replied in a low voice, then looked down again at the sweetener packets with a frown. Plucking a blue one out of the pile next to the caddy, he studied it for a moment, then slid it behind two pink ones.

"What are you doing?" She was genuinely curious. His mind worked in ways she couldn't fathom, but found fascinating. More than the lean, svelte muscles or the tousled, dark curls, it was his brilliance that drew her in. She loved to watch him work.

He looked up at her, puzzled. "Arranging them by age and which factory produced them."

The _of course_ lingered silently in the air between them. Molly grinned, happy just to be sitting there with him. "I don't even want to know how you figured that out. My brain hurts just thinking about it."

"Stop it. You're much smarter than you give yourself credit for. After all, it was you who gave me the clue that led to unlocking Irene Adler's phone, therefore saving my brother, or rather England, an ungodly sum of bribery money." He rolled his eyes, tossing the rest of the packets aside as Mr. Rossetti placed two enormous plates in front of them.

She couldn't help feeling pleased, although she only had the vaguest memory of what he was talking about. He must be referring the phone he had brought to her lab and attempted to x-ray. "I'm glad to help you and John, in any way I can."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock picked up his fork, tapped it against the edge of his plate, ignoring the pile of breaded veal heaped in front of him. "I may not have shown it in the past, but I've always appreciated it. You are the most competent, organized, and talented pathologist I've ever met."

Molly eyes widened, and she regretted her rather large bite of baked pasta, as she suddenly didn't feel as if she could manage to swallow it. But she did, somehow, and hastily wiped her mouth with the napkin from her lap. "That's...wow. Thank you."

He inclined his head, leaning back in his chair, his dinner still untouched. "It's not flattery, merely the truth. I could not effectively do_ my_ job without _you_. In a way, Sherlock Holmes does not exist without Molly Hooper."

Oh, she _liked_ this new Sherlock, she did.

A shadow fell across their table then, and they both looked up to find three men standing over them. Molly's chest tightened at the rough look of them. The one in the lead position wore a mean smile on his unshaven face, his hulking shoulders blocking most of the view to the street behind them.

"We've been looking for you, guv," he said, sneering at Sherlock, who looked unconcerned, tipping his chair back onto two legs.

"Well, you've found me. Hello, hello." He nodded to the two silent men standing behind the leader, while Molly twisted her napkin under the table. How was he so calm? These men were clearly here to hurt him. "Have a nice long look, then off you go. This dinner has been five years in the making, and I promised her cannoli."

The leader narrowed his eyes, and cracked his knuckles, tensing. "Yeah, I don't think so. We've come to give you a message."

"Leave it at the concierge stand."

"A _personal_ message."

"Oh, for God's sake." Sherlock stood abruptly, the chair tipping over behind him with a crash, his mouth flattening in irritation. "I am _trying_—"

He shoved the leader hard, knocking him into one of the men behind him, and they stumbled, tripping over each other.

"—to have dinner—"

Grabbing the third man by the arms, he twisted him around, and kicked him in the back of the legs. The man collapsed with a surprised yelp of pain. Then Sherlock grabbed the bottle of wine from the table and smashed it over his head, felling the thug in one blow.

"—with a beautiful woman—"

The first man was back, rushing in with his arms thrown wide, a snarl on his face. The two men wrestled for a moment, but then Sherlock managed to get behind him and started choking him into submission.

"—and I _do not_ appreciate—"

The second man, the one the leader had tripped over, crept up behind Sherlock, a large wooden pepper cracker in his hand. Molly, unfreezing from the shock of being attacked in the middle of their date, leapt from her seat, snatched up her steak knife and brandished it at him.

"One more step and I will slice you from balls to chin. I do it to dead people every day, you wouldn't be much different, except maybe you'd wiggle more."

His mouth dropped open, and he threw away the pepper cracker, his face going pale. He started backing away with his hands in the air, nearly falling over his own feet. Mr. Rossetti stopped him after a few steps, poking him from behind with a shotgun he must have kept in the back for security.

"—the interruption. _Damn you._" Sherlock released the thug's unconscious body, and the man dropped to the floor face first, his head hitting the wooden floor with a solid thunk. Panting, Sherlock stepped back, raking a hand through his disheveled curls, and looked around at the broken glass and knocked over furniture. "Sorry about that. I'll pay for any damages, of course."

"No. No, _they_ will pay. I called the police before getting my gun. As far as I'm concerned, these men tried to rob my restaurant, and you and your lady came to the rescue." The owner glared at the man he held hostage and poked him again with the shotgun. "I think such bravery should be rewarded. Now you_ both _have free cannoli for life."

The faint wail of sirens sounded in the distance, drawing closer, and Sherlock stepped over the bodies of the unconscious criminals. Gently, he peeled open Molly's hand, taking the steak knife from her and placing it on the table next to her crumpled napkin. Cradling her palm in his, he brushed his mouth over it, the warmth of his breath causing her fingers to curl inward as her skin tingled.

"Thank you for that. Threatening him with a knife. How perfectly savage of you."

Molly drew in a shuddering breath. It had all happened so fast, just a matter of moments. There hadn't even been time to be frightened, and now she recognized that the shaky feeling within her wasn't due to a delayed reaction of horror. No, it was pure adrenaline.

The way he had _moved_, like one of those big cats at the zoo, full of deadly, wild grace.

"Are you alright?" He tipped up her chin with one finger, searching her face with a concerned gaze. "You look a bit...a bit..."

Molly reached up, grabbed the lapels of his suit, and yanked him down for a kiss, just as the police burst into the restaurant. His mouth was warm on hers, with the faintest taste of mint, and delicious danger. She clenched her fists tighter in the material of his jacket as his arms slid around her waist and pulled her tight against his body.

"Oi, you two! Jesus, this is a crime scene now, yeah? Get a room."

Sherlock broke their kiss, lifting his head to glare at Detective Lestrade, who stood next to them with a repulsed look on his face. "Smashing idea, Gary, thank you."

"Greg."

"Don't care."

"Sherlock!" Molly buried her face in his jacket, dying of mortification to be caught snogging him by half of New Scotland Yard.

He sighed loudly, clearly put out at yet another interruption. "I'm taking Molly home. If you need us, you can come round tomorrow. _After_ noon. Ring the bell anytime before twelve and I will dissect you like one of my experiments, and store your head in Mrs. Hudson's refrigerator."

Taking Molly's hand, he began to weave his way through the police and emergency medical techs working on reviving the men on the floor. She followed, her heart racing. He was taking her home, he had said. _His_ home. With the adrenaline still pumping through her, she couldn't think of anything she'd like better in that moment.

"How come you're always wrapped up in these things, Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade yelled after them, as he surveyed the smashed glass and tipped over chairs around him, hands on his hips. "Just lucky, then?"

Sherlock didn't bother to reply as he pushed open the door for Molly and followed her out onto the sidewalk. She glanced over at him, his profile lit from behind by the street lamps. His brows were drawn down in thought, his expression dark, and he looked dangerous.

Just her type, lucky her.

"I don't believe luck has a thing to do with it." His muttered comment startled her as it echoed her thoughts so closely, but then she realized he was still mulling over Lestrade's comment.

Molly pulled her coat tight around her to ward off the chill of the evening. "Who were those men?"

"I don't know, but I intend to find out." He flipped up the collar of his coat, and started to flag down a taxi, then paused. Turning back, he reached out and snagged her hand, reeling her in until she bumped into his body. Sherlock looked down at her with pale blue eyes that burned with sensual intent, sending a rush of shivers shuddering through her. A slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth, as he ran one hand down her back, pressing her to him.

"But first, there's something more important I need to do."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hello lovelies! As always, thank you so much for the support and feedback. Before we go any farther, I wanted to address a concern mentioned in a review. The theory was put forth that, if we stick to (BBC show) canon, Sherlock and Janine did**_** not**_** sleep together. The reasoning behind this was, she brought him newspapers in the hospital where she had sold the story of Seven Times A Night Sherlock! etc, and spread them out, then said "Just once would have been nice."**

**Here's where I think it's open to interpretation. They actually talk a bit in between that, and she says "You **_**lied**_** and**_** lied**_**, Sherlock. Just once would have been nice." He looks at her and says "I was saving it for marriage." I feel that she was saying "Just telling me the truth ONCE would have been nice." and Sherlock was being Sherlock. It's not cut and dried in my opinion, and I wonder if the writers left it that way on purpose, just to give the fans something to agonize over. Anyway, that's the way I chose to interpret it, so that's the canon for my story. I feel as if Sherlock wouldn't have bothered with sex before because there was no advantage in it, other than physical, and we all know he can control that well. But, once he goes down that path (falls off the wagon, if you will), I think his attraction to Molly would become that much harder to brush off. **

**I do so appreciate reviews like that, because they really make me think about why and how I write what I do. Much love!**

**Disclaimer: Not. Mine.**

**Chapter Five**

They tumbled through the door of his flat, mouths fused together, tearing at each other's clothing. Ripping off his coat, Sherlock threw it toward the couch, and used his foot to kick the door shut with a loud bang.

"_Neighbors!_" screeched Mrs. Hudson from the floor below, and Molly's eyes widened. She burst into giggles, then covered her mouth to muffle the noise, dodging his attempt to grab her again. She shuffled backward through the living room into the kitchen, a shy smile playing about her lips.

Sherlock stood between the two rooms and watched as she raised her hands to her blouse, fiddling with the first button. Mouth dry, blood diverting south, muscles knotting in tension. It wasn't difficult to deduce what his body wanted. Had wanted for so long, and was used to being denied. But he didn't have to bury his response to her any longer.

He could take what he wanted now.

"You do understand what you're getting into here?" He stepped into the kitchen, restless, wanting her. Here, on the table. Or maybe there, against the wall.

Or perhaps both.

Definitely both.

Molly's mouth did that funny little twist he found so alluring, as if she was hugging a highly entertaining secret to herself, and tiny dimples popped out in her cheeks. "I think I might have an idea."

He had several ideas, and would more than willing to share them with her...if she would just stop making him chase her.

Sherlock stalked her around the kitchen table as she backed up, her eyes bright with mischief. He shoved aside a chair that got in his way, ignoring the loud scraping noise it made, neighbors be damned. When she finally slid the button loose from its mooring, he could almost swear his pulse doubled speed. Narrowing his eyes, he feinted toward her, and she laughed as he allowed her to evade him yet again.

Molly_ liked_ being chased. She wanted to be caught. He supposed it was only fair, making him the hunter now. He didn't mind playing her game, if it brought him what he wanted in the end.

"It's a very small flat. You've only a few options," he explained in a conversational tone as he maneuvered her out of the kitchen, back into the living room. The chair would do. Or the desk. Even the couch, short as it was. "There's the front door, but I know you don't want to use it—"

"I don't? Are you sure?"

"Quite. My bedroom is that way—" Saucy minx, asking him that as she pulled out her hair tie and shook loose her ponytail. He wanted his hands in the tangle of golden brown silk that fell almost to her elbows. Sherlock tipped his head towards the way they had just come, never taking his gaze off her. "—if you're lost. But I don't think you are. Playing games, Molly? I'm very good at games, but I must warn you—"

Molly bumped into the armchair behind her as he stepped close and placed both hands on her hips, steadying her. "—I do tend to win."

"Maybe I want us both to win." Her brown eyes were wide, filled with need, and the warmth of her trust. A trust he wasn't sure he had truly earned, but was selfish enough to take anyway.

"There is always a winner and a loser, in any contest."

"Not always," she murmured, and slid her arms around his neck. Her long, slender fingers felt cool against his heated skin, and he couldn't repress the shiver that ran through him as she played with the curls at the nape of his neck. Lowering his head, he captured her mouth, tasting her, desperate for the connection. To be surrounded by her. To surrender to _them_, together, and the feelings rushing through him, shutting his mind down, quieting the ever present stream of thought.

He'd heard the rumors, that Sherlock Holmes never felt a thing. That he didn't have emotions, didn't have a heart. But the rumors were wrong. He felt everything. Too much, so much it had been overwhelming. In the past, he had taken drugs to dull the feelings that clawed at him constantly, threatening to bury him alive. Then he learned to control them, to lock them down, to erect an icy shield of neutral calculation between himself and the world.

But now he welcomed the rush, took it in, _wallowed_ in it.

Fingers digging into Molly's hips, he drew her tight against him, wanting to tear at her clothing until she was as naked and vulnerable as he felt in that moment. She slipped her fingers through his hair again, and he closed his eyes to concentrate on the sensation. The press of her fingers against his scalp felt so good, he had trouble recalling what they had been speaking of. It had been a long time since another human being had touched him with that much emotion.

If ever.

Reaching up, he captured her hands, moving her backwards until her shoulders hit the glass of the front window. He drew her wrists over her head, holding them against the cold surface with one hand. She gasped, her head dropping back, as he trailed his mouth down the delicate skin of her throat. So sweet. So very willing. Her pulse fluttered against his lips, and he bit there, just the lightest of pressures, savagely pleased to drag a moan from her.

One hand continued to restrain while the other slid down her body, tracing the shape of her. Soft, slight curves. Gentle swell of her breast, the dip of her waist, the muted line of her narrow hips. He slipped his fingers under the edge of her blouse, fascinated by the smooth satin of her skin, and moved upward until his palm was filled with one of her breasts. Giving it a squeeze, he pulled down the cup of her bra, and rolled her nipple between his fingers, marveling at the hard little bud.

"Oh, Christ," Molly breathed, her eyes closed, the most lovely pink flush burning across her cheeks.

He grinned, then pressed a soft kiss on either side of her mouth. "No, just me."

"Sherlock, the window. Anyone could see." She gave a half-hearted tug on her imprisoned wrists, but he had no intention of letting her go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Perhaps he'd keep her tied to his bed. It'd be a good look for her.

"I don't care. Let them. Let them put it in the papers. Saves me the time and trouble of warning off other men." But he pulled her away from the glass, letting the curtains fall back into place. Enough playing games. He was done, reached the outer limits of his patience, his control starting to slip.

In one smooth motion, he picked Molly up and threw her over his shoulder, starting down the hall to his bedroom. His half-healed injury gave a sharp twinge, but it wasn't enough to stop him.

"What are you...I'm not a sack of potatoes!"

"No, you are considerably heavier." When she punched him in the back with an outraged squeak, he just tightened his grip on her legs, and kicked open his bedroom door. "I only mean that in the most complimentary of ways, of course."

Without ceremony, he dumped Molly on the bed, enjoying the way she sprawled across his covers. Her hair fanned out behind her, God-awful paisley shirt rucked up over her stomach, and an indignant look on her face as she struggled to raise up to her elbows.

He was going to enjoy stripping her out of those unflattering slacks, revealing the long legs they covered. Relish in ridding her of the boxy blouse that rendered her shapeless, and shredding the inhibition he suspected hid a wild, burning passion.

It would be nothing but pleasure to peel back the layers of Molly, until she was laid bare before him, both in truth and emotion. He wanted to discover everything about her, every feeling she had, every experience that shaped her, all her small habits and complexities. Despite her tendency to wear her heart on her sleeve, he had never taken the time to truly _look_ at her until recently.

She was still a mystery to him, and he wanted to unravel her. Needed to, in truth. Needed her, all of her.

He wanted to hear her scream his name.

Reaching out, he gripped the knob of his bedroom door, closing it firmly behind him. Sherlock turned back with a smile, pulse racing, focus narrowing only to the woman sprawled across his bed.

"Now, Molly, let's do something about all that superfluous clothing you're wearing..."


	6. Chapter 6

**I know several of you are probably cursing me, but I had to make the tough call, and I seriously doubt there will be explicit sex in this story. There's nothing wrong with it, I read it all the time, and enjoy it as much as the next gal. BUT...I don't feel comfortable going there in this story. Not to say there won't be **_**sensual **_**scenes, and the occasional filthy word or turn of phrase, but the sexytimes will stay behind closed doors, I think. **

**Thank you all for your encouragement and feedback, as always! XOXO**

**Chapter Six**

Sherlock lay next to Molly, turned on his side, and watched the way the morning light filtered through the curtains, turning her hair dark gold. Reaching out, he moved a glittering lock from where it had fallen across her face, so her profile was bared to him, peaceful in sleep. She murmured something that sounded quite a bit like "_carrots_", then buried her face in the pillow, snuggling deeper under the blankets.

He felt turned inside out. Open. Raw.

It was both a relief, and frightening in its intensity.

The phone on his bedside table chirped and Sherlock rolled off the mattress, snagging it, and one of his robes, on his way out the bedroom door.

"Hello, Mycroft," he said, padding down the hall to the kitchen in bare feet. "To what do I owe this dubious pleasure? I haven't even managed tea yet. You know how I am before my first cup. But I suppose, if you must call, an empty stomach is to my benefit."

"Don't be such a child," his brother answered, in a stiff voice. "I've just rung to inform you I dealt with the little problem you had last night, and the police won't be coming 'round to your flat today. I suppose this means you and Miss Hooper can sleep in."

"_Doctor_ Hooper, and that's none of your business. Stop spying on me." Where was his tea kettle? Damn that Janine. She had rearranged his entire kitchen and he couldn't find a blasted thing anymore.

"Everyone needs a hobby, brother dear."

Sherlock sandwiched the phone between his ear and shoulder as he finally located the kettle, in the cabinet over the sink. Perfectly logical place for it, and yet it infuriated him not to have his belongings in their usual place.

He started filling it with water, bored with the conversation, waiting for his brother to get to the point. Mycroft certainly hadn't called just for the small matter of a police interview. "I am not your dear anything. Is that all, Myc?"

"Oh, good Lord, not you too." Mycroft sounded as though he was grinding his teeth, and Sherlock resisted the urge to do a petty victory dance. Sometimes nettling his brother was_ so _easy. "Before I go, I should like to mention we have received information that there is a possibility you have been targeted by professional hitters."

"I came to the same conclusion, evidenced by last night's invigorating little scuffle. I'm not worried, if that's the quality of assassin I'll be seeing. They didn't accomplish much, other than put me on my guard. Rather sloppy, all in all."

"Perhaps it was more of a...trial run." Mycroft sounded tired, but his voice strengthened again as he went on. "And I wouldn't say the operation was a total loss, if we put ourselves in their shoes, whoever they are."

"Oh?"

"No. After all, now they know you will fight to protect _Dr._ Hooper. Don't they? They know she matters." There was annoyance in his brother's voice, and condescension, but also a thread of fear. "I told you caring was not an advantage. You never did listen to me."

Sherlock froze, one hand on the box of tea he had found in a tin over the refrigerator. He wasn't sure what he would have said to that, but Mycroft spared him the bother of thinking of a reply by hanging up the call without another word.

His brother considered Molly a liability. Was she?

Yes.

Did it make a difference?

No.

After all, over the last few years he had acquired quite a few liabilities. John, Mrs. Hudson, Mary, Lestrange. Mycroft himself. His parents. There were any number of people that could be used against him at this point, so why was his brother concerned about Molly in particular?

There was a slight noise behind him, and Sherlock turned as she stepped into the kitchen. Molly was wearing an old tee shirt he couldn't recall buying, with one of his robes belted over it, her legs bare, feet encased in the fuzzy striped socks she had been wearing the previous evening. Golden brown hair tumbled over one shoulder, and she looked wary, a small nervous smile on her lips as she played with the robe tie.

He felt like he had been sucker-punched, all his breath gone, chest aching. She looked perfect. Like she belonged here, in his flat, in his kitchen. Getting in his way, breaking his concentration, borrowing his things without a thought.

Making him...happy?

Oh. _This_ was why Mycroft was so concerned.

Sherlock turned back to the stove abruptly, setting his phone down on the counter and removing the kettle from the burner.

"Tea?"

"Please."

There was a moment of silence as he poured, while Molly stood next to the table, twisting the material of the robe between her fingers. Handing her a steaming cup, he leaned back against the counter and took a sip of his own. She sat in one of the chairs, playing with the tea bag, not looking at him.

"You don't have t—"

"Did you wan—"

They spoke at the same time. Tucking her hair behind one ear, Molly directed a lopsided smile his way. "This is awkward. Go on."

"Ahh." Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to remember what he had been about to ask. He wasn't used to having a woman in his flat. Janine didn't count. He had looked upon her presence more as an annoying side effect of the case he had been pursuing, less like a romantic partner.

_Romantic partner._ The term made him want to sneer, and yet, unbalanced him in the most disturbing of ways.

He looked at Molly closely. What was proper "morning after" etiquette, anyway? Was he supposed to make her eggs or toast? Ridiculous. He had barely managed the tea. She didn't seem to be expecting breakfast, though. In fact, she seemed a bit uncomfortable; restless fingers, crossed ankles, averted eyes.

"Right. I've got to shower. There's bread in the cabinet, if you'd like toast. Butter in the refrigerator." He shoved off the edge of the counter. "I think."

Setting his cup of tea down, he skirted around the table to the hallway, a hollow pit in his stomach. Molly didn't seem relaxed or pleased, not in the way he would have imagined a woman should look after a night of vigorous sex on several surfaces and in multiple positions.

Stepping into the bathroom, he shucked his robe and turned on the water. As steam began to fill the small room, he braced his hands on the sink and looked at his reflection in the slowly fogging mirror.

He might know the Latin terms for most of England's native plants, or solved a locked door murder that stumped the police, but relationships were still a mystery to him. This situation with Molly was so far outside his comfort zone, he could say, as he rarely did, he felt a bit...lost.

Sherlock yanked open the shower curtain and ducked under the hot spray of water, wanting to hit the tiled wall with his fist in frustration. He loathed being at a disadvantage, it made him irritable and twitchy. But he reined in his emotions, settling for letting the water run over his head, and concentrated on the feel of the scalding stream, attempting to regain his equilibrium.

The sound of the bathroom door opening, then closing, had him going still. The rustle of clothing, the shuffle of feet, the crinkle of the plastic shower curtain as Molly pulled it back and stepped into the tub with him.

Naked.

With a frown on her face.

"_Trying_ to shower here," Sherlock said in a testy voice, his heart racing, as he turned back to the stream of water.

"You know," Molly replied quietly, reaching past him to pick up the bar of soap and lather her hands. "You're not the only nervous one. Everything's changed, I feel it too. I'm just as scared as you are."

"Scared? I'm not scared," he scoffed, attempting not to shudder in pleasure as she began to rub soapy hands over his back, tracing the rigid muscles with massaging fingers. If he turned around now, his reaction to her touch would be more than obvious. "I have a lot on my mind at the moment. Things to do, cases to solve, places to go. No time for pillow talk or holding hands."

"Terrified." Molly's tone was firm as she pulled him around to face her, the understanding in her gaze reaching inside him and soothing all the jagged edges. "It's fine. It's alright. You can go and solve your cases, and I'll go to Bart's. Maybe I'll see you later today, maybe I won't."

His muscles clenched as she pressed her wet body against his, slippery soap coating their skin, rubbing together in slick friction, and slid her arms around him.

"But I'm not _going anywhere_, Sherlock." She raised up on her toes, placed a kiss on his jaw. Refusing to examine the emotions that brewed within him at her calm assertion, he lowered his head and captured her mouth with his. She whimpered against his lips as he slid his hands south, then hoisted her up, forcing her to wrap her legs around his waist.

She was so warm, and soft, and wet...all over.

It would take a stronger man than he to resist a naked Molly Hooper in the shower.

Later, the atmosphere was much more relaxed, the tension between them eased, as she sat on his sofa and tied her shoes, in preparation to leave for her work day. Sherlock was at his desk, perusing his website's email inbox, which was overflowing again.

"Ever since John got married, he's been neglecting our case queue. If I wasn't so fond of Mary, I would be rather cross. Sorting email is mind numbing." After deleting several boring looking emails, he glanced up, watching as Molly shrugged into her coat.

"I'd imagine his schedule is tight now, what with his practice, being newly married, and the baby on the way."

"Hmm, yes. I don't suppose..." He raised his brows at her, but she just shook her head, smiling. "Right. Everyone's busy. That's fine. I can manage."

The sound of footsteps on the stairs had Molly leaning in, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "There's always Mrs. Hudson."

_God forbid_. A montage of what a day with Mrs. Hudson in tow would look like flashed though his mind. Sherlock shuddered, and replied crisply, "_Not_ an option."

Mrs. Hudson pushed open the half-closed door to the flat, tea tray in her hands, with a bright smile on her face. "Hello, dear. Good morning, Molly." She continued into the kitchen, humming. There was a sudden clank as she put down the tray on the table, then reappeared, a confused frown on her face.

"Molly?"

"Was just leaving." Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair, and grabbed Molly's scarf. He doubled it up, dropped it over her head, and pushed one end through the loop. "No point in wearing it if it's just going to hang there. Not to mention it's a hazard on the stairs. You're liable to trip and break a leg, and then I'd have to deal with that moronic colleague of yours instead."

"Ooo, scarf tying lessons from the great detective himself. Your show of concern is flattering." Mrs. Hudson's mouth dropped open as Molly stuck her tongue out at him, grabbed her bag, and headed to the door. "I'm off. Do something brilliant today."

She didn't wait for a kiss, or ask him to ring her later, or seem to expect anything from him at all. Which, of course, had Sherlock following her out the door, snagging her by the wrist, and backing her against the hallway wall. He swallowed her gasp, her lips warm and welcoming under his. After a moment, he lifted his head, and looked down at her flushed face.

"Don't go home after work. Come here."

She nibbled her bottom lip. "I need a change of clothes."

"Bring several." He shrugged, stepping back, wondering at his own words. But he wanted her here. "And perhaps a new shower curtain."

"I'll call you later, when I leave Bart's." Molly didn't commit to anything, but she wore a pleased smile, and gave a little wave as she left. She would be here.

He watched her go, and when he could no longer see the top of her head as she disappeared down the stairs, he went back into the flat. Mrs. Hudson was sitting in John's chair, her eyes wide.

"Sherlock Holmes, what are you doing with poor Molly Hooper?"

He just looked at her for a long, silent moment, and she turned pink, her shoulders jerking to attention. "You know what I mean, you rascal! She's a _nice_ girl."

Dropping onto the sofa, he propped his feet up on one end and stared up at the ceiling. Assassins. Where would one buy a hitter in London, if one was so inclined? "And I am not nice?"

"You know you're not. I adore you, you must know that, but _nice_ is not a word I'd use to describe you." Mrs. Hudson folded her hands in her lap, giving him a narrow look. "Does John know?"

"Not yet. Why would he care?" His Homeless Network would know who was selling death, and who was buying. Time to put out a few feelers.

"Because he's Molly's friend too, and wouldn't like to see her heart smashed flat, I'm quite sure!"

"Pffft. Amazing how no one ever worries about _my _feelings." Sherlock waved his hand irritably, wishing she would leave him to in peace. "Now, will you please _bugger off and let me think_?"

"Oh!" She stood, indignant. "I don't know why I put up with you."

Sherlock merely closed his eyes as she stormed from the room, clucking to herself about bad manners.

_Think._

Someone broadcast Moriarty's likeness across London's television channels; there a high probability they meant to send Sherlock a message in doing so. In the time he had been away from London after faking his own death, he had dismantled Moriarty's crime ring. It couldn't possibly be one of his underlings, most of them were in jail or on the run. Not to mention, their leader was dead. There was nothing left to fight for.

Was there?

Still, _someone_, likely the same person or persons, had sent a clumsy trio of thugs after him the previous evening. They had to have known he could overcome their feeble attempt at intimidation, so why send them at all? Was Mycroft's theory correct? Or was there a different motive?

Why wait almost a month in between the two events?

He had been alone, or with John, who was well known as his valued partner in his investigations, several times in public in the last few weeks. Why not attack then? Why not come to his flat, where they were almost sure to trap him without witnesses?

Sherlock steepled his fingers, resting them against his chin, as he mulled it over.

So many questions. The pattern was still too murky, he couldn't connect the points yet. He needed more information, and quickly. Reaching out, he snagged his phone off the coffee table, and sent John a quick text.

_221B Baker Street. Immediately._

After a moment, he grabbed the phone again. _Please._

There. And people said an old dog couldn't learn new tricks.


	7. Chapter 7

**Whew! I'm back! I'm so sorry for the long absence, and will endeavor not to leave the story again for such a gap. i won't be posting as quickly as I did the first half of the story, but I will try to keep up with it in more regular intervals. **

**IT'S NOT OVER YET, MY CHICKENS.**

**(Disclaimer: Not mine. Not even a smidge. Not even a whisper.)**

**Chapter Seven**

Molly sighed, and stretched, the muscles in her lower back aching. The morgue had been busy today at Bart's, and she hadn't even had time for lunch. A half a cup of coffee and a stale bag of crisps she'd found in her desk drawer was hardly enough. Not to mention, the few broken hours of sleep she'd gotten the previous night. Every time she'd managed an hour or two of rest, Sherlock would wake her up again, his mouth hot against her skin, long fingers tracing sensual patterns over her body.

Not that she was complaining.

But Molly was exhausted, and hungry, and she found her head feeling quite muzzy on the way back to her flat. Which is probably why she didn't notice the man lounging on the steps to her building until he stepped into her path, blocking her from the front door.

"Excuse me," she muttered, trying not to make eye contact, her pulse picking up, clearing the cobwebs from her brain. She was so stupid to have blown off the attack at the restaurant the evening before. But she honestly hadn't given it another thought after the police arrived and took the criminals into custody. That was Sherlock's area of expertise, not hers.

"Sorry, doctor, but my boss needs to have a little chat." The large man didn't budge, his face stony. His gaze flickered to where she shifted her keys between clenched fingers, and then he raised one eyebrow in a mocking gesture. "That wouldn't be smart."

Crap. He might be right. The man was a mountain of muscle, towering over her by at least a full head. She probably wouldn't even be able to hit anything vital, or painful enough, to convince him to back off.

Biting her lip, Molly keep the keys between her fingers, regardless. "Who's your boss?"

"That for me to know, and you to find out."

"I can't right now. Someone's expecting me. Can we... can we make an appointment?" she asked a little desperately, as he placed one meaty hand on her elbow and propelled her down the steps again to the waiting car. She squinted at the darkened windows, but couldn't discern any movement within. Tugging at her arm, she tried to dig her heels into the sidewalk, but it made no difference to her captor. He just dragged her unwilling body toward the vehicle in a grim, relentless march.

As he reached the door handle, opening it to reveal only dark shadows within, two other black cars squealed around the corner and skidded to a stop only yards away. The man holding Molly's elbow swore and yanked hard, attempting to shove her into the vehicle as men in dark suits spilled out of the newly arrived cars.

But Molly knew a rescue when she saw one.

She threw her all her weight backward, lashing out with the fist that bristled with sharp, jagged metal prongs. Her movement took her captor by surprise, and she managed to slash his cheek, if only superficially. His face twisted into a snarl as blood flew in tiny crimson droplets, and he dove into the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind him. Just as the men reached it, the car peeled away from the pavement, swerving into traffic, and disappeared around the next corner. One of the newly arrived cars roared down the road after it, tires burning rubber against the asphalt with a squeal.

Molly just sat where she had fallen on the pavement for a moment, stunned, trying to catch her breath. Shiny black shoes entered her vision, and she stared at them, feeling numb.

Mycroft Holmes crouched down in front of her, his gaze coolly assessing as it travelled over her body. "Are you whole, Doctor Hooper?"

"I... um, yes, I think so." She blinked at the soft, pale hand he held out to her, then took it. So different from his brother's broad, callused palms. Only the elegance of the long, graceful fingers was the same. He drew her to her feet, and she winced, trying not to rub her sore bottom in his presence. How embarrassing.

"Wonderful. My brother would be quite put out, should you have come to harm." His tone told her he did not approve of this, as if Sherlock caring for someone was a disgraceful flaw. A flash of irritation burned through Molly at the elder Holmes brother's disdainful expression.

"Well, that's one way to say it." She brushed at her slacks, even more annoyed to discover a tear in one knee. Then she realized her hands were shaking, and she was shivering, hard enough for her teeth to chatter. Lovely. She was going into shock.

Mycroft looked alarmed, and waved at someone out of her blurring vision. A second later, Molly was wrapped in a warm blanket, and being guided to sit on butter soft leather seats in the back of the car that had remained behind. She stared at her trembling fingers where they lay in her lap, her brain disconnected and fuzzy. A wave of exhaustion hit, and she dropped her head back on the seat, closing her eyes.

The soft murmur of voices outside the open car door reached her, but it was too much effort to distinguish actual words. Soon, someone sat down next to her, and the door closed. As the car purred to life and pulled away from the curb, Molly managed to drag one heavy eyelid open long enough to catch a glimpse of Mycroft Holmes's austere profile.

He would take her to Sherlock.

With a soft sigh, Molly allowed herself to drift off, lulled by the smooth vibration of the powerful machine that carried her across London to Baker Street. All too soon she was partially awakened by the muffled sound of angry whispers, then the sensation of being lifted out of the car by strong arms. Turning her face into Sherlock's collar, she breathed him in. He smelled like soap, fall leaves, and the faint scent of tobacco.

"You've been smoking again, you naughty man." Her words were soft and slurred, but she couldn't seem to make her lips obey, to form precise sounds. Sherlock's arms tightened around her as her carried her up the stairs and into his flat.

His voice was low and soothing as he strode down the hallway to his room. "No, but I spent most of the day in smoky pubs, chasing down certain bits of information on the men who attacked us last night. Perhaps I should have staked out your flat instead."

There was a note of angry self-recrimination in his deep voice as he gently laid her on the bed. Molly stared up him as he began to peel her clothes off. He wouldn't meet her gaze, until she reached up and placed on hand on his cheek. Going still, he looked down at her, his face expressionless, but his pale eyes were full of anger and guilt.

"Stop it right now. You couldn't have known that man would be waiting for me."

"I should have. Hostage taking is a highly effective strategy to get one's enemy's attention, and a time honored tradition among a certain set of criminals." He tugged off her shoes, his movements short and jerky. "Well, they have my attention now, but I'll wager they won't enjoy it."

Sherlock unbuttoned her pants and started to tug them down her legs, and Molly winced as the material dragged over the tender flesh of her bum. She would probably have a hell of a bruise there tomorrow. He froze, his gaze narrowing, as if really looking at her for the first time since lifting her out of the car.

"Are you hurt? Mycroft said you were not. Was he wrong? I will murder him slowly if he was untruthful with me." He leaned over, abandoning her pants around her knees, and gently lifted her hands in his own. Turning them over, he spied the scraped palms and sucked in a swift breath, color flooding the high planes of his cheekbones. His gaze raised to hers, burning with barely leashed rage. "Where. Else."

"It's nothing." Molly's pulse hitched. He looked like he wanted to tear someone apart. Oh, not her, she wasn't worried for her own safety. But he did tend to be impulsive and rash when his temper was upon him. She spoke in a low voice, pitched to soothe. "It's fine. Just a few shallow scrapes, and one sore bum from being ungraceful and falling over backwards onto the pavement. Nothing to get worked up over."

"This is unacceptable."

He stood abruptly and left the room.

Molly blinked.

Her pants were still around her knees, her palms stung like the devil, and she was sprawled across Sherlock's bed. Of course, now _would_ be the time for him to stomp off in a huff. What a mess.

But before she could struggle into a sitting position and wrestle her pants back on, Sherlock was striding into the bedroom again. His arms were full of creams and bandages, and something that looked alarmingly like antiseptic. He dumped it next to her on the mattress, stalling her attempts to redress with one withering glare. Yanking her pants the rest of the way off , he then tossed them out the door of the bedroom, down the hall. Quite out of reach.

"Umm..."

"Do not think for even a moment that you are leaving this flat, Molly Hooper. Nor will you be going anywhere alone in the foreseeable future. Or anywhere at all, actually." He knelt before her, and began to clean her scraped palms with the antiseptic. Molly sucked in a breath as the liquid burned on her raw flesh, but he quickly blew on it to relieve the pain. "Either John or Mrs. Hudson can bring you groceries or books, and my telly works."

He paused in the middle of wrapping a bandage over her palm, his brows drawing down into a frown. "At least, I think it does."

"Don't be daft." Molly placed one foot on his chest and shoved. Unprepared, Sherlock lost his balance and fell backward to land on the floor. She stood and placed her sore hands on her hips, glaring down at him. "I am not _hiding here_ until you figure out who it is after you. Who knows how long that could take?! I have a job! I have friends! _I have a life._"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed almost infinitesimally, his wide mouth compressing as he stood to face her. "Yes, of course I know that. But you are in danger. Do not be foolish. No job is worth your life."

"Oh, really?" Molly raised her eyebrows at him, disbelief plain in her voice. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but you and John risk your lives in pursuit of cases all the time. How is that different?"

There was a long moment of silence as he studied her, his face tight with frustration. Finally, he growled, and ran a hand through his messy curls. "It just is."

"_It just is_? No, Sherlock. No." Molly didn't even care that she was having this conversation in a blouse and panties, bandages on her hands, and a sore bottom. Either he understood _now _that her life and her job were on the same level as his, that they were as important to her as his was to him, or he never would. She had learned the hard way that if she gave Sherlock Holmes any leeway at all, he run roughshod over her completely.

"I won't stay here, eating take-out curry and watching telly all day while you run around London, ducking big men with bad attitudes and Christ knows what else at their disposal. I refuse to put my life on hold for a case of yours that might endanger me. If I did, I'd never get anything done again ever."

He stepped forward, crowding her against the edge of the bed.

"_Fine._ Be stubborn. Endanger yourself by going to work, but I will... request... that you allow me to have one of my Homeless Network watch over you on your commute to and from. And that you spend your nights here, where I can keep my eye on you."

Molly inclined her head, her heart thudding in her chest at the urge to raise up on her toes and press her mouth to his. He was so delicious when he was being bossy and demanding. "I can do that."

"And you will call me twice an hour when you are not in my presence." His wide hands settled on her hips, long fingers gripping the thin material of her panties.

"Too much. One text every two hours is the best you'll get."

His mouth curved upward, fingertips rubbing against the soft flesh of her waist. "Agreed."

Molly pulled back as he lowered his head to kiss her, placing a hand on his chest to hold him off. "I have a condition of my own, you know."

"Do you?" he murmured, choosing to nibble at her collarbone when she continued to deny his access to her mouth.

_Did she what?_ Molly's head fell back to allow him more room to maneuver, heating curling in her stomach. _Oh, right, conditions!_

"You are absolutely not to dash off after any criminals without John at your side, and without making every possible effort to contact the police first."

He drew back, his brows furrowed in annoyance. "I can't always wait for the bumbling authorities to muster themselves into what passes for some semblance of loose organization in hopes they will manage not to muck things up and actually assist in an investigation, instead of merely impeding it and getting in my way."

"And yet, they are the ones with the tasers."

His fingers caressed her back, drawing forth an involuntary shiver of pleasure. "This condition impacts the effectiveness in which I am able to carry out my investigations. Chose another."

"No. You have your conditions, I have mine." Molly held her breath, watching the play of emotions across Sherlock's face. Finally, he gave a short, grumpy nod, and she released the air in a soft whoosh.

Good. At least she had done her part to mute his impulsiveness, and help protect him. She had no doubt he would rush directly into a dangerous situation if he believed he might catch the man who sent that thug after her, without even a thought to his own safety.

Molly smiled and pulled him down for a deep kiss, her desperate need for him flowing through her despite her exhaustion and sore body. She slid her arms around his neck and pressed up against his firm chest, relishing the still new sensation of Sherlock wanting her.

"This has been a long and tiring day. I think I need a nap." She nibbled at his lips, threading her fingers through the silken tangle of his curls.

He started to pull back, his expression abruptly concerned. "Oh, Christ, I didn't even think of—"

Molly laughed, tickled by his cluelessness. How could he be so brilliant, and yet, so very dense at the same time? "I think I need a nap with you, Mr. Holmes. Why don't you put me to bed?"

The concern faded as he studied her face, and a wicked grin took its place. Slowly pushing her down onto the mattress with his long, firm body, he laced his fingers through hers and drew them over her head.

"That sounds like a well thought out plan, Doctor Hooper. I shall endeavor to wear you out, so you can get the rest you so desperately need."

And then, much to her delight, he did.


End file.
